


Champion's Pride

by photonromance



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Forced Orgasm, It's bad, M/M, but not graphic, forced come eating, gladiator!shiro - Freeform, look I really like hurting shiro, non-con, slave!shiro, war prize!shiro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 05:35:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11799489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/photonromance/pseuds/photonromance
Summary: It's time for the Champion to receive his prize, the highest honor of the ring.





	Champion's Pride

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iocane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iocane/gifts).



> Hello lovelies, I'm back. And I bring filth. If you would be interested into seeing where this goes, feel free to comment. My- partner- shall we say will be interested to know more and with your encouragement, we might see just what Shiro's prize is truly to be. Edit: I did not edit this as well as I thought I did *shame* but, I've fixed it up.

Broken little thing. Ruined. And all the more precious for it. He was a pilot before. Shiro. They called him a natural leader. And look at him now. Soft and warm. So warm. His skin is caramel brown, broken with the raised, redbrown welts of scars won in his last battle, and the battles before. They've removed his cybernetics, of course. There's a ring around his cropped bicep, silver, and the pale lilac light of Gulra technology leaves a glow on the sheets. He's pathetic. Knees spread and dropped wide with his arms spread open, welcoming. He's high on the Mage's concoction, dripped into his prize, a full trough of water for his cell. If he hadn't been so greedy, he might not be so weak.

The Emperor watches the boy, struggling against the prison in his blood. He can raise his hand, a bare few centimeters from the bed, but it's pitiful. The Emperor reaches down and touches him, just a brush of sharp talon over soft, bare thigh. The wretched boy shudders, just a shiver through his whole body. A tremble. Sweet. The Emperor spread his hand and rakes his talons down the boy's bare thigh, leaving a trail of welts, red and puffing in his wake. The boy would arch if he could. For a moment, the Emperor considers allowing him to wake a little more. He would squirm so prettily. Looking up his lean body, Zarkon sees the feral spark that makes the boy such a good gladiator. It's for the best he's under.

Hooking one leg, the Emperor pushes the boy's thighs up and open. There, bright against his warm skin, a crystal glows faintly. The Emperor presses down, forcing it deeper into the boy, leaving him trembling, his weak body arching a bare few degrees. It must feel like a dramatic gesture, even though it looks pathetic. "How it that?" Zarkon asks lowly, voice rumbling, "Is this the prize you fought for, champion?"

The boy opened his mouth, no sound escaping.

"Do you want to scream?"

The boy looks furious, that feral spark, drawing his lip back in a snarl. Zarkon draws back and slaps him, knuckles putting a streak of blooming bruise over his cheek.

"Scream for me."

The spark grows. Oh. So this is how the boy survived the ring.

The Emperor pushes the bar inside him deeper, making the boy cry out. Though it's not pain that pushes his voice.

"Have you found your voice then, little one?" He asks, stroking the boy's jaw with one sharp talon. A welt rises.

The Emperor finally closes his fingers around the crystal rod holding the boy open for him. He gives it a sharp twist and a crackle of electricity makes the boy arch, further this time. Adrenaline. His body is trying to over come the drug. Pathetic.

The last cry came with something new. His little organ has spilled, something milky white is spattered over his belly. Zarkon runs his fingers through it, just to stuff it into the boy's mouth. He gags.

"You're a waste," the Emperor murmurs, "Not even the druids could make you useful."

"I-m- n-ot-" The boy breathes the words, little more than a gasp of air to carry his fire.

"Perhaps you're right," Zarkon concedes, grining wickedly when the boy dares to look triumphant, "You will be my vessel tonight after all."

Those bright eyes widen in shock and the Emperor laughs, low and rumbling and heartless.

The crystal rod clatters to the floor, the soft ring of it lingering as Zarkon pushes the boy's legs up and open. "They prepared you, little one. But not nearly enough."

Finally, he screams.

**Author's Note:**

> To Iocane, you monster xoxo


End file.
